Eventide
by radissimo
Summary: Epic Jasperfic chronicling his time in the Civil War. As historically accurate as possible.
1. Chapter 1

**High Noon  
Eventide**

Chapter 1_  
February 20_  
1862

"_Among the interesting thing in camp are the boys."_  
-Rutherford B. Hayes

**:.**

It was the coldest damned winter he'd ever had the displeasure of living through.

There was something in the air, here. He could smell it. It smelled like dirty ice and wet pine and that dead, motionless scent that hovered over the ground just before a heavy snow. Jasper wrinkled his nose at it. Every breath was like inhaling a cap full of frozen water deep into his lungs; it singed his mouth and throat and burned all the way down, made his chest ache if he held it in too long, let it pool there, and even when he didn't hold it in at all. Moving brushed the still air across his face and caught it fire; sitting still let it smolder there just as painfully. He sighed, and his breath streamed out like an angry steam engine. He wished he could whistle.

"Lieutenant, sir?"

He didn't look up. He'd heard the door to his cabin creak open, the crunch of boots on the old, packed snow outside; the voice hadn't startled him. He tucked his arms tighter against his chest and continued to watch his breath collect on the smudged windowpane, pretending instead to be staring through it.

"Yes?"

There was a soft shuffle as the private—Rogers, by the sound of his voice—stepped into the freezing cabin. He huffed. "My, sir, you could just about skate around on the air in here, it's so cold. Why don't you come join us out by the fire? Cole sent me to see what you was up to."

"Tell Cole to come himself, if he's so curious," Jasper quipped, but he was grinning, and no longer oblivious to the dark-haired man waving to him from outside. He would have built a fire of his own in the grate near the corner, but then all of his men would have tried piling inside with him, and he knew from experience that that was not a very pleasant or comfortable situation. Even now, the place still smelled strongly of feet.

"I'm afraid you'll have to order that directly, sir," Rogers snorted. "Lazy coon hasn't paced himself more'n an arm from that fire since dawn."

Chuckling now, Jasper turned away from Cole and the exaggerated fanning motions he was making as he leaned away from the fire. He could hear the handful of men seated around his friend laughing loudly, the sound reduced to a faint, brief gurgle through the walls. Rogers grinned at him; the deep dimples in his cheeks made him look five years younger. _My age_, Jasper thought, and his grin turned wry. Every time he thought he was finally getting over the age difference between him and his men, it returned unexpectedly to nag at him again.

"Come on." He brushed by the private, pausing to snatch his old hat off the misshapen peg by the doorframe. He expected a blast of cold air—_colder_ air—when he stepped outside, but there was nothing. His cheek burned a little brighter as a soft breeze grazed it, but otherwise the temperature was the same and the woods were still. Still, but not dead.

All around him soldiers trudged through the mottled brown and white snow like trolls, their bowed, bulky forms lumping oddly in places they shouldn't, covered head to toe in varying shades of brown and grey. Jasper straightened and peered around at them curiously for a moment, wondering if something was up, but it was only the usual early morning rush. A platoon was running through a set of basic drills off in the distance, their orderly commands the only organized sound to pierce the otherwise garbled mess of grumbling and laughter. That, and the sudden sigh from just behind him as Rogers crunched off around the side of the small cabin serving as Jasper's quarters.

Sighing himself, Jasper turned to follow. It wasn't that he'd never seen snow before, he'd helped drive cattle up high enough ranges for that, but it was this…he didn't know the name for it. There was just something about the Virginia air that made it slide like a knife into his gut. The winter here wouldn't bother him half as much if it didn't feel like it was crippling him from the inside.

"Well look who finally decided to crawl out of his mansion," a man drawled suddenly. Jasper looked up. A few of the privates from his platoon had gathered around a makeshift fire that was quickly gobbling up the few freshly cut logs that had been haphazardly tossed onto a thickening carpet of light grey ashes. Over it hung a steaming kettle of coffee, the metal blackened and glowing bright orange where the flames licked it. Jasper caught the scent and breathed it in deeply, and suddenly the cold didn't seem quite so unbearable. He returned Cole's smirk with a grin.

"Heard there was half a dozen varmint stinkin' up my backyard," he returned, tipping Scott's hat over his eyes as he stepped up and sank down onto the frozen log beside him. Scott slid it back up on his forehead and peered sideways at Jasper with a crooked grin. Jasper winked at him. "One day you might actually grow into that ten-gallon," he teased, "and then I'll just be tappin' you upside your empty head."

"Not if it explodes from all the Injun junk he's been fillin' it with," Cole offered good-naturedly from the other side of the fire. He was already busy tipping the steaming kettle over a small, slightly dented tin cup. It was missing its handle. "Coffee, Lieutenant?"

Stepping up close to the fire had been like sinking down face-first into a tub full of freshly boiled water; actually reaching over it was like plunging his arm into the jaws of hell itself. Jasper was able to hold the cup only because his fingers were too numb by now for him to differentiate between the pain of the searing cold and the pain of the searing heat, but it smelled warm and inviting enough that he really didn't mind either way.

"I swear," he murmured softly, bringing it up under his chin to let the steam rise and scorch his face pleasantly. "Texas sun's gonna burn me right up if I live long enough to see it again."

There was a sharp bark of laughter, and all three of them looked up in surprise; the quiet one, Bolling, laughed like that so rarely that they could never remember it was him when they heard it. He was gangly and sharp-faced, with knees that stuck out like spider legs compared to the more fairly proportioned Cole sharing a seat beside him. But his long fingers and quick, darting eyes made for a skilled medic, and that fact hadn't been lost on the officers who'd appointed him the position down in Galveston, where his protests would have gotten him released if they hadn't needed to fill up their own numbers so badly. But Bolling had been content enough lately; hadn't had to cut anyone open in weeks, just treat the ill, whose ailments kept to the outsides of their bodies. Now he slapped his knee in amusement and pointed at Jasper with a wide grin.

"Now that's a good one. Big ole brigade of hardened Texas soldiers steppin' back out onto the plains, steppin' out into the sun soon as she crests, then whispin' away like—like the way a lady's dress does when she twirls, you see?" He made small fluttering hand-motions to emphasize what he meant. "_Poof._"

Rogers, who had never had much of an imagination to begin with, snorted at the mention of a lady's dress. Cole snorted as well, but for different reasons.

"Sounds more pleasant than sittin' out here waitin' for my feet to turn to stone," he drawled, pulling on a thick glove and grabbing the kettle to pour himself another cup. "Though I s'ppose that could be a might useful for kickin' Bluebellies in the behind, assumin' they ever stop runnin' long enough to catch up to."

Everyone laughed at that, Jasper included, until he caught sight of his company's former first sergeant strolling through a gap between two patchwork cabins. He stood abruptly and took a quick gulp of his coffee, then cursed to himself when it scalded his tongue and his first gulp of frigid air only encouraged the flames.

"You get bit by somethin'?" Cole snickered, watching. "Well heck, if I'd known somethin' was still alive in there I'd've bit it first. Be a nice respite from stale bread."

Shaking his head, Jasper hastily stepped around the fire and handed off his cup. Cole's amusement turned to confusion. "Hey, you just sat down—"

"And I'll be right back," Jasper promised. "I just need to confirm something first."

The men watched him step around the fire curiously—all but Cole, who shrugged and busied himself combining their coffees into a single cup. "Suit yourself, sir. Ain't rubbin' your feet for you when you catch the real bite, though."

"You can warm my dirty socks for me instead," he retorted with a grin. Cole tried to hide an amused smirk, but Jasper caught it and slapped him lightly on the back as he slipped deftly out of reach. Cole cursed as hot coffee splashed to the ground with a soft hiss, eating quickly through the snow at his feet. He swung blindly backwards, but Jasper, snickering, didn't even have to dodge. And then he was away from the cackling warmth of the fire and the comforting presence of his friends, and the cold started to hurt again. He shivered and hunched down into his thick grey overcoat, sighing heavily as the painful reminder of this winter's unending freeze stole away from the temporary good mood he'd found with his men.

Former First Sergeant Smith was a big bear of a man who knew how to carry himself so that his weight looked impressive rather than dumpy. He'd been the youngest officer in the company save Jasper, but still managed to tower a full head and shoulders over him, even when Jasper donned his hat. Jasper remembered being a little intimidated by him back when they'd first trained together, but jogging after him now, his size was the only indication that there might be something to fear. He was laughing loudly as he walked, patting enlisted men on the shoulder as he passed and calling out good mornings to the ones who were too far away. Everyone in this end of the camp knew him, even if the association wasn't by any choice of theirs. One finally pointed Jasper out behind him; he kept getting caught by the throngs of other soldiers out and about on the campgrounds. When Smith turned and saw who was there the face beneath his thickening golden beard split into a big grin.

"Lieutenant Whitlock! Mornin', scout!" He saluted without breaking stride. Jasper brushed by a few more groups of chattering soldiers before managing to close the remaining distance between them, falling into step at his side. He tried not to feel short.

"Morning, Private," he said with a blossoming grin of his own. Smith was beaming at him now, and his good mood was often contagious. "Listen," he went on before Smith could, "I don't want to take up much of your time, but I've been hearing rumors…"

"Aw, Whitlock, didn't your ma ever teach you what to think of rumors?" Smith nudged him with his elbow, an impish tint to his light grey eyes. "Or was she just about to? Waitin' till you shed your first coat to get started, an' the Bluebellies beat her to the punch?"

Jasper rolled his eyes. His looks had never failed to amuse Smith, who had only stopped short of catching him up in a headlock the first time they'd met because his eyes had found the two golden bars on his collar. He still held superior rank, though, so he made fun of Jasper for it whenever he could—at least until recently. Last month he and his good friend First Lieutenant Bedell had gotten a little too raucous with the nearby townswomen, and he'd gotten his rank revoked. Not that he acted like it.

"To be honest, Private, right now I'll take all the coats I can get," Jasper replied with a small smirk and a glance overhead, where the clouds had yet to part since their last large blizzard over a week ago. He'd quickly learned that the best way to deal with Smith's teasing and wit was to simply return the fire.

Sure enough, Smith laughed loudly, a big, booming bark that rolled from his chest like a drum. He draped an arm around Jasper's shoulder companionably and tugged, sending him stumbling off in the direction of the regiment's headquarters. "Come on, Lieutenant Smart-Ass. You're shiverin' so hard you're about to shake 'em all off regardless."

Regimental HQ was a large, shabby-looking log-work cabin much like many of the other, smaller homes serving as officers' quarters all around it, but missing the cracks between resin seams and boasting windows of real, regularly cleaned glass that had never been broken, let alone glued clumsily back together. The inside of the place was always warm. Jasper wasn't overly fond of it; he was only ever in there for an hour or two, and then the freezing air outside was always made all the more unbearable by comparison. But it was homey and comfortable and smelled like men, smoke, and tack, which was a scent Jasper was familiar with. He stepped inside and sighed as the heat washed over him in a pleasant, tingly burn.

The captain was there, looking over something on a table in front of the fire with Lieutenant Colonel Rainey and Major Dale Matt. Maps and other charts lined the walls, along with hooks for their outer uniforms and side arms, and even a rack for their rifles. The floor was relatively clean, aside from the mottled mixture of mud and snow that had been tracked inside since that morning. Jasper tried his best to stomp his boots clean in the doorway before shuffling aside so that Smith could stand beside him. Together they both saluted the ranks. Captain McKeen kept his hands tucked behind his back, right in front of the fire grate so that most of his face was cast in a dark shadow. His expression was flat and his eyebrows even; he wasn't surprised to see either of them.

"At ease." His eyes fell on Jasper as he relaxed and pulled off his hat, running his fingers through his hair to get the kinks out. "Been hearing the rumors, Whitlock? I wondered what was taking you so long."

Jasper let his feet carry him closer to that tempting fire as he offered the captain a crooked smile. "Didn't know if they were true at first, sir. Didn't want to bother you if they weren't."

"Horse shit," the captain snorted. Smith laughed from the chair he'd promptly draped himself across and Rainey raised a high, thin eyebrow. Matt just looked bored. Jasper didn't mind. He was only a first lieutenant, but that was enough to get his foot in the door, so to speak, at least as far as basic regimental intelligence went. He liked to know what was going on. Captain McKeen found his curiosity vaguely annoying, but only because he didn't like explaining himself when he had a perfectly knowledgeable first sergeant to do that for him. He kept Smith around after being demoted purely for that reason. Smith himself found it amusing, though, and was prone to playing ignorant when Jasper came poking around him for information, thereby forcing him to step down and shut up, or go and bug the captain. He did it because he knew Jasper always bugged the captain.

"Well," Jasper amended, his smile widening, "and I couldn't find you last night when I heard them."

"I was up in divisional HQ verifyin' 'em for myself," McKeen told him, bending over the table again. It was a map, Jasper could see now. Of the Potomac, all the way down to Yorktown. He shivered from a mixture of excitement and discomfort as the fire's curling heat began to make him sweat over his still-frigid skin.

"So they're true, then?"

"Well now, that depends which ones you heard."

Lt. Col. Rainey took a step forward suddenly, his wary eyes taking in Jasper's pink, slightly ruffled appearance with what looked like a mixture of curiosity and bored annoyance. "Wigfall did not drink himself to death," he spoke up dryly. "No coma, either. Sorry."

Jasper nodded at him. Tall and thin, Rainey looked more like an executive officer than a fighter, which was exactly what he preferred. He'd been appointed unofficial colonel of the regiment since Wigfall's promotion to brigadier general, though, and Jasper had a feeling he'd only agreed to it because he'd known this winter would be too cold to fight through. His hands were long and thin, and looked like they'd be shattered by the kickback of his Enfield. No one had ever seen him fire it. Then again, the same was true of nearly everyone. Jasper had been assigned to this brigade back in October, and they hadn't been engaged in so much as a skirmish since. This was his first time seeing Rainey in any type of personal environment; he wondered if the man even knew who he was. Or cared.

"I'm not surprised, sir," he said in reply, keeping his tone appropriately meek. The captain may have grown to tolerate his playful quips, but he'd been stuck near Jasper's side for going on seven months now; anyone higher was at liberty to find it disrespectful and insubordinate. So he gripped his hands behind his back and kept his thoughts to himself. None of the men liked Wigfall, himself included—he was a fat old man who drank away his worries every night and subsequently fired off paranoid reports of enemy activity every morning—but the man was still a commanding officer, and therefore still entitled to a certain measure of respect. Maybe. Jasper shifted his weight around on his feet and tried not to sound too hopeful: "But the other rumors…?"

To his surprise, Captain McKeen nodded. "He resigned. Taking up that civilian seat over in Richmond, sounds like."

"'Bout time," Smith grunted, never anywhere near as mindful of himself around superiors as he should have been. But he quickly dropped the smirk from his face when McKeen eyed him warningly. "Sir."

"He'll make a better politician than a soldier," Rainey agreed unexpectedly. Smith leaned back in his chair and smiled at him, ignoring the way the wooden legs creaked in protest.

"That's all I was sayin'."

"So who's taking his place?" Jasper wanted to know. Wigfall hadn't been a very good commander. He'd filed more false reports than Jasper had known anyone could and still retain their rank, and he'd found it exceedingly difficult to quiet his platoon's grumbling when he was soaked to the bone himself, marching along the bank of the Occoquan to a Federal offense he knew wouldn't be there. Marching all the way back empty-handed and doubly cold only made it worse.

"Right now, we're not sure," McKeen told him. "Looks like the brigade'll default to the senior officer for now. Richmond can sort the rest out later."

"Col. Hood's senior, isn't he?" Smith asked thoughtfully, stroking the hair beneath his lower lip. He stopped as excitement lit up his eyes. "He is, isn't he? Aw hell, I wouldn't mind followin' him into battle—a _real_ one, for a change."

"Private," McKeen said slowly, warningly. Smith shut up, but shared a glance with Jasper, his eyes still crinkled, smile hidden behind his hand. Jasper struggled not to smile back. He shared that excitement. Col. Hood was currently in charge of the Fourth Texas Infantry, and the men there praised him for his enthusiasm. He'd even abandoned Kentucky and joined the Texas infantry because he'd grown exasperated with his home state's neutrality. Here, finally, was a man who might let them do something productive, and have half the mind required to keep them from wasting energy and resources in the meantime.

"Col. Archer of the Fourth Texas is senior," Rainey pointed out with a sideways look at Smith. "He'll be in command. For now." He glanced at McKeen. "I'm sure Richmond will take a month or two to elect anyone else, if they decide to."

Jasper's excitement didn't waver, and neither, apparently, did Smith's. Col. Archer had a notoriously cool head, and an eye for the well-being of his men—when Wigfall's demands for troops had grown outrageous as the winter snows set in, Archer had been the first of the colonels to begin standing up to him and, when necessary, ignoring his calls to arms completely so that his men could instead be properly fed, sheltered, and rested. Jasper and his men had envied them, but since the First was under Wigfall himself, they'd always been forced to respond no matter the conditions. And there'd been some pretty bad conditions.

"Well that's fine," Smith spoke up with a fresh grin, lifting his chin and running his fingers through his beard again. "'Cept, you know, it leaves the First without a commanding officer."

"I'll remain in command," Rainey told him coolly. Smith gave him a long look, which for Smith meant that he had something to say, but knew better than to try. Rainey returned it evenly.

"And why is the major here?" Jasper interrupted, shooting a glance at Smith that told him not to test this man. He'd already gotten his rank revoked; the next step was a transfer into some undesirable administrative position like mess hall janitor. He quickly returned his gaze to Matt, though, and kept his expression very carefully void of anything but curiosity. Matt was a small man with a little paunch, but his eyes were quick, and Jasper'd heard that he had a good head for numbers and odds, especially when it came to warfare. He looked at Jasper now, still bored, before glancing at McKeen, who looked annoyed.

"That's none of your concern, Lieutenant. Now go gather your men and tell them about the change in command. I don't want any more of these damn rumors starting up when winter's so near to breaking."

Jasper saluted and was dismissed. He sighed and settled his hat on his head again, trying to brace himself for the crippling cold that trickled over him as he opened the door. Smith winked at him as he stepped away and headed out, which made him smile. He hid it beneath the brim until he was safely outside again. Smith would tell him later whatever he was missing now, he was sure, and that made the first shock of ice in his lungs a little more bearable. He tucked his hands into his pockets and burrowed down into his coat until the collar came up around his ears, then set off back toward his men.

The major was there for a reason, and so was that map. Jasper burned with curiosity, but he knew better than to go poking around when the captain really didn't want him to. If he had to guess, though, he would say that they were either planning to move out soon or actually being given orders to. The thought was both a relief and an excitement. They'd been stuck around this damned river for what felt like forever, and it stank and it was dirty and the men were getting restless with no one but one another for company. Hell, half of his own were still out sick.

Typhoid fever and pneumonia had all but decimated the Fourth and Fifth Regiments. Jasper and the rest of the First were lucky; they'd been touched by a few severe cases of rheumatism and some typhoid-pneumonia mixes, but nothing significantly worse. Still, they were eager to leave. They and everyone else had ransacked the homes of nearby civilians back in early December—a necessity to survive out here, but a nuisance nonetheless, and they hadn't been welcome since. Most men didn't even bother going into town anymore, which left them with a few packs of cards, a guitar or two, and each other. They were more than ready for a change of scenery.

But both of his sergeants were currently in the infirmary, Robinson with a raging typhoid fever and Armstrong coughing up a lung. Normally he would have gone to them with orders to gather up the rest of his platoon; instead he made his way back to the fire they'd been huddled around when he'd left. Only Bolling had disappeared. The coffee was still steaming, and the smell once again welcomed him back like the crisp, freshly brewed warmth of coffee in the morning back home, after spending the night tending to a sick horse or nurturing a premature calf. He sucked it down into his lungs greedily and smiled. This was how he'd rather spend his first few hours out of bed, not standing at attention and watching his mouth around men with the power to strip him of rank and the indifference that kept them from thinking twice about it.

"Welcome back, sir," Scott greeted, scooting over so that Jasper could settle beside him again. Jasper grunted, his bones creaking as he bent his knees and curled in on himself again, the wood hard, cold, and rough against his backside. Then he nudged his neighbor in lieu of a more formal greeting. Scott was probably the most naïve man in his platoon, but also one of the most pleasant—he'd never had to fire a gun before Galveston, but he was as enthusiastic as the rest of them about hunting down the Yankees, though innocent enough not to think anything of the aftermath. A lot of the other men were worried how he'd react to a real battle, Jasper included. Of course, not that many of the other men had been engaged in one themselves.

"Sorry, Lieutenant, I drank all your coffee," Cole joked as he held a steaming cup out for Jasper to take. "Try not to let this one cool, you hear?"

"So anyway," Rogers continued while Jasper settled in, "you ask me, this up here is more Injun territory than anything out west. You go out there, you got nice, friendly names; you got _Texas_ and you got _Nevada_—"

"From Navajo," Scott interrupted. Rogers stared at him blankly and he continued: "Nevada comes from the word Navajo. You didn't know that?"

Rogers scowled. "Well at least it ain't some unpronounceable thing like _Occoquan_ or _Quantico_ or—or what's that other one, it don't even stick in my head anymore."

"Arkansas?" Cole offered, struggling to hide a grin behind his cup. His eyes darted briefly to Jasper. "Tennessee?"

"Nevada is Spanish," Jasper chuckled, mostly to keep the mood light before Rogers could get angry. "Not Navajo."

Scott gave him a confused frown as Rogers erupted in laughter. "But wait," the boy reasoned slowly, "then why—?"

"Trust the lieutenant, Scott," Cole smirked, shooting Jasper an amused look. "He's an Injun vet. Ain't that right, sir?" He kicked Jasper's boot and grinned. Jasper kicked it back.

"Ain't at war with the Indians right now, haven't you heard?"

"Depends where you live." Another kick.

"Spill my coffee and the Comanche will be the least of your worries." Jasper kicked back.

"But that doesn't mean he knows everything about them," Scott insisted, lifting his chin and glaring pointedly at Cole, who was too busy snickering to himself to notice. He rolled his eyes and looked to Jasper instead. "What's Nevada Spanish for, then? It sounds like Navajo to me."

Jasper nursed his coffee and made a face at the irony of the conversation. "Covered in snow."

Cole lost it and cracked up, his coffee tipping dangerously over his boots. Rogers took another moment to catch on, and Scott sat there blinking doubtfully. Jasper hid his amusement behind the rim of his cup. He figured Cole was being more than obnoxious enough for both of them at the moment.

"Well," Rogers finally spoke up, "I tell you, I've been in the damned Nevada deserts and I sure as hell wouldn't name it that. Ain't no snow anywhere I could see."

Cole went off again, and even Jasper snorted loudly as he struggled not to laugh at Rogers's misinterpretation. Rogers, assuming Cole was laughing with him instead of at him, quickly joined in. "Heh. Don't make a lick of sense, does it?"

Cole just shook his head, still chuckling, and sipped from his coffee as he shared a glance with Jasper from over the fire. Jasper shook his head and dropped his gaze with a heavy, content sigh. The flames were dying a little, so he curled his frozen fingers around a half-charred stick on the ground and poked at it, stirring up a flurry of hot, pulsing orange embers. He poked it again and watched a few rogue sparks dance out of the fire pit onto his boots, where they fizzled out harmlessly before they could eat their way inside.

The morning was always the hardest time of day, he mused, when he was still stiff with cold from the night and the sun hadn't had a chance to warm the air any. Now, though, he was beginning to settle back into it again. The fire was only pleasantly warm and the cold at his back was mostly ignorable. In an hour or two the sun would be overhead and the ground would glisten with churned, half-melted snow. And then it would freeze over again and become a hazard to anyone trying to find their way around at night, but not for too many weeks longer. The men would be glad to hear that real change was just around the corner.

He let Rogers make a fool of himself for a few minutes more before turning over one of the larger logs and stirring his stick around in the exposed underbelly of mixed ash and lingering heat. The flames quickly dwindled down to a fierce, defiant glow before sputtering feebly.

"Hey," Rogers complained, distracted. Scott reached for the stick to poke it back to life again, and Cole looked up at him questioningly. Jasper sighed and handed it over, but pushed himself up to his feet before Scott had a chance to revive it.

"Sorry. Let it die, Scott, and go gather up the rest of the men. I need to talk to everyone."

**:.**

All in all, only eleven of the eighteen men in his platoon were able to make it. Second Lieutenant Thompson showed up as well, curious. He was in command of Bedell's platoon while he and Smith awaited their probation orders for January's escapade into town, and he always seemed one step behind whatever was going on in the camp. Not that this was one of those times. Jasper was simply good at gleaning new information earlier than most.

He wanted to frown at the scraggly bunch as he watched them assemble against one of the side walls of the company's headquarters, but he kept his face impassive, not wanting to hint that anything was wrong. And nothing was, really. He was just tired of watching his platoon disappear from disease rather than warfare, before they could even fire a shot. He was one of the lucky lieutenants—none of his men had died yet—but he knew it was only a matter of time. The worst of the fevers had broken, but the winter was still cruel and the soldiers had been cramped together for way too long. Some of them were beginning to go stir-crazy; he recognized the signs. They needed to move.

"We're not drilling, are we, sir?" an older man, Gillis, wanted to know. He had an old pain in his knee left over from the Mexican War that the bitter cold had been provoking. Normally he was a strong, experienced soldier, but right now he looked and acted like nothing more than a man quickly passing the prime in his life.

Jacoblef, a much younger, much more vocal private, laughed loudly in reply. "They can _try_!" he told Gillis, though he glanced up at Jasper for confirmation. Jasper smiled.

"No, we're not drilling," he said honestly. Everyone was tired of tramping across the slippery ground, the officers included. "Now hush. I have some announcements for ya'll."

"Are they about Wigfall?" a gruff, bearded man named Lazarus grunted from the back of the group. "Heard he finally found the bottom of a bottle the other night."

"He's not _dead_," Jasper told him, speaking up to be heard over the murmuring Lazarus's words stirred up. Lazarus just grunted again, and glanced dryly at his friend Carter. They were old, older than anyone else in either platoon, and Jasper suspected Carter, at least, was older than his own father. They had trouble taking orders from someone as young as Jasper looked, and Jasper in turn found it difficult to command someone who'd already fought through the Mexican War. Gillis was more good-natured, but Carter and Lazarus considered him nothing more than a bumbling greenhorn, and Jasper couldn't help but agree with them, albeit silently. He'd driven cattle across over two thousand miles of terrain and fought the Comanche all the way to California and back, but he'd never been in anything more than a skirmish, and never actually in charge. His rank over them was just a meaningless title when it came to actual battle experience.

The men were excited, though, and it took a moment to bring them back to order again. "Don't make me call attention," he finally warned. They grumbled, but calmed down, far too comfortable in their bulky, mismatched stances to have to line up and stand stiff for him. He didn't usually bother forcing them to anymore, but once or twice a week to keep them primed for it, and just often enough to make sure it never became an obsolete threat. But he'd been with these men since before the company had officially formed back in August—some even before that—and he'd come to consider them friends before subordinates. Most of them, anyway.

"Well then?" Cole wanted to know. He was hunched down beneath what looked like three separate overcoats, shaking like Old Man Winter himself was blowing down on him. And he didn't look very happy about it. "Tell me you got us all coffee-less and freezin' out here for _somethin'_."

"Wigfall's resigned," he announced with a glance at his friend. Cole's irritable expression loosened into a wide grin, as did most of the other men's. Jasper smiled. He'd stood behind their commander up until now, but that was back when Wigfall was still their commander. Now he had no more reason to hide his distaste for the man. "Headin' off to Richmond as we speak, I'm sure. Col. Archer'll be takin' over in his place."

"Why not Hood?" Bolling wanted to know, his eyes hopeful, but cautious. "I heard he wanted it. Been askin' for it since he adopted Texas."

"It's defaulted to Col. Archer," Jasper explained. "Seniority. But Captain McKeen thinks that may change."

He grinned as the men broke out into an excited babble. It was about time they'd gotten some good news around here, he liked seeing them worked up over something besides poker and ballad lyrics for a change. And if they were lucky—_really_ lucky—they'd be moving out of this damned camp before long, and busying themselves fighting the Yankees rather than frostbite.

"And," he added loudly, suddenly remembering his orders from a few days ago, "_and_, Second Platoon, listen up: now remember, we're on scoutin' duty for a week startin' tomorrow. So start breaking yourselves up, cover for the men who're still out sick; I know we're short, which'll mean everyone goes out more than once, but I figured we could all use the extra exercise."

They erupted into cheers and hollers. Jasper let them. This news had been a long time in coming, and he didn't mind if they used it as an excuse to celebrate something for a change. When whatever order they'd actually mustered together for the meeting finally disintegrated, he let it, and dismissed them. It was still early, and everyone was sure to have other duties to attend to, himself included. He turned in the direction of the stables, slowing a little when he noticed Second Lieutenant Thompson fall into step beside him.

"Should I tell First Platoon?" he wanted to know. "I wasn't given any orders to, but you always know everything before anyone else. And it doesn't look like it's a secret or anything."

"Well the captain gave me orders to, so I guess they go for both of us," Jasper told him. "And tell Bedell too, if Smith hasn't already. I never know what he's up to anymore."

"Okay," Thompson agreed, but didn't leave. Jasper glanced over at him curiously. He might be on his way to the stables as well, but Jasper doubted it. Bedell's platoon liked him, and he knew the Thompson felt awkward taking it over in his absence, especially while Bedell retained his rank and kept nearby. A bad move on the regiment's part, but there was nothing either of them could do to change it. Orders were orders, and both Smith and Bedell were stuck here uselessly until they were told to go somewhere else.

"Did you need something?" he prodded gently. Why a man nearly four years his senior felt so comfortable coming to him for advice he'd never understand, but they'd grown to be friends because of it. Thompson was nervous, but not a bad officer. And he was getting better.

Thompson shook his head, his breath fanning his face in the still air. "Naw, not really. But the stables are warm, and I haven't seen to ole BlackJack yet. Say, you been exercisin' yours, out in the snow and everything?"

"Everyday," Jasper nodded patiently. Thompson knew that already, he was obviously just fishing around for conversation.

"I sure hope we don't have to fight in the snow," he commented, glancing upward at the continuous veil of puffy grey overhead. "We'll make a damn fine shootin' target for the Yanks, a big towerin' bunch of black on white, don't you think?"

"You're assuming the Yanks can shoot straight," Jasper teased, grinning. Thompson grinned back, his expression finally relaxing.

"I guess I am. Suppose I should see to the men before I spend the rest of the mornin' groomin', huh?"

"Suppose so," Jasper agreed. Usually all Thompson needed was a little encouragement that he was on the right page, something Jasper didn't mind helping him out with. He grinned and saluted dismissively before heading off in another direction, snow crunching loudly beneath his boots. Jasper tucked his hands deeper into his pockets and kept an eye out for any horsey surprises as he drew nearer to the stables.

It was still February, but more men were recovering from the fever than falling ill to it, and March was on its way. They'd very nearly survived the winter; he couldn't imagine them falling prey to anything else.

**:.**

* * *

**A/N:** Check out the link in my profile for more information.


	2. Chapter 2

**High Noon  
Eventide**

Chapter Two_  
February 28_  
1862

"_I failed, I failed, and that is all that can be said about it."_  
-Abraham Lincoln

**:.**

Orders always took a while to get through, if there were any on the way. In the meantime, Jasper organized his men into small scouting parties and set them loose up and down the Occoquan to keep them occupied, though without any sergeants active, he was forced to go with them himself. Not that he minded.

Men from every company had taken recently to drifting away from their scheduled routes and crossing the frozen river to poke around in the Federal picket line. It was dangerous, especially at night when the Yankees, unaccustomed to the wilderness, tended to shoot at anything that moved. The men found their wild shots amusing, and a fun way to pass the time. Jasper did too, but he didn't want to see any of them needlessly hurt or killed over it. And so he kept them company every night, which was exhausting compared to the months of inactivity back at camp, but worthwhile in the long run. And tomorrow the duty would be passed to another company, leaving him all the time in the world to recuperate during his uneventful life of horse grooming and rifle cleaning under the watchful eyes of his commanders.

This particular afternoon, he and Sergeant Armstrong's Second Section were patrolling along a little stream known as Pohick Run, named after some local Indians who had long since been run off or killed. Too small to freeze over completely, it was mostly a tangled mess of rocks and twigs with a little ice water mixed in. Just a shallow little creek, really, though it was supposed to open up considerably in another mile or two, and had back beneath the bridge they'd used to cross it. But here, Jasper was more worried that someone would stumble into it and get water in their boots than he was that they would run into any Yankees. They were still too near to their own camp.

Three of the men were out sick, so he'd grabbed Cole from First Section to help fill in the gaps a little, and a man from E Company had asked to tag along when he'd seen them leaving camp. Private Stratling, he'd said his name was. It was against regulations, but he was familiar with Jacoblef, who vouched for him, and honestly, Jasper could use the extra pair of eyes. They turned out to be good ones.

"Is that a house out over there?" Stratling asked unexpectedly. His voice was slow, thick, and drawling, like it was being dragged through a batch of molasses caught in his throat. A Louisiana accent, Jasper had heard somewhere. Most of E Company hailed from New Orleans.

He looked up where the man was pointing and caught the outline of horizontal wood through the thick, drooping pine. Beside him Jacoblef whistled, impressed.

"You see that, Lieutenant? Eagle Eye Stratling does it again. Told you he was worth cartin' along."

"Quiet," Jasper warned out of habit, sidestepping a tree to get a better look at the place. "There could be Yanks inside." It looked abandoned from here, though, and the location was too near to their camp for the Yankees to try and fortify it. He relaxed and smiled at Stratling, curious about the newcomer. "You a sharpshooter?"

Stratling blushed red all the way up to the tips of his ears. "Naw, sir, but I always wanted to be. Don't got the rifle or the practice, though."

"I know someone who could teach you," Jasper offered, always eager to make friends in other companies. Cole caught on to his trail of thought and grinned wickedly.

"He can bend the barrel with his hands," he offered Stratling conspiratorially, stepping over a frozen pile of deadwood toward the cabin with a loud crunch. "Big bear hands with big bear claws. I seen him do it."

Jasper laughed and nodded for him to go check the place out, partially because he wanted a chance to talk to the private himself, and partially because he trusted Cole's eyes and his judgment. To Stratling he said, "Don't listen to him, he's got a bigger mouth than a head. Sharpshooter's name is Andrew Smith, I'll introduce you to him when we get back."

Stratling's face changed from cautious to eager. "Yeah? You think he'd wanna teach me?"

Jasper shrugged, offering him a smile. "He's got nothing better to do," he said honestly. Smith could hardly keep his finger off the trigger of his Whitworth long enough to run a successful patrol, he'd probably jump at an actual excuse to get it out and show it off.

"Looks clear," Lazarus suddenly grunted from behind them, his tone bored. He didn't want to be out here, Jasper knew, but he'd managed to avoid every other patrol this week, and fair was fair; Jasper wasn't going to overly burden some of his men while others shirked their duties.

Up ahead Cole was squinting into one of the cabin's dark windows, his rifle hanging harmlessly at his side. There was a sudden explosion of cracking bracken just behind Jasper as Crawford and Scott, who had been hanging back out of boredom, bolted by.

"There could be people inside!" they called back at the startled look on Jasper's face. "_Fresh food!_"

Bolling sighed as he kicked aside an overturned stone and stepped up after them. "Cole just said it was clear," he grumbled. "They're gettin' their hopes up for nothing."

"Well there might be something else in there," Jasper suggested, following. Bolling was just restless because his friend Armstrong hadn't completely recovered from his rheumatism just yet, and he thought the sergeant should have. Jasper just assumed it would disappear around the same time as the sharp sting in the air, and not a moment before. He shrugged again, trying to keep the medic's spirits up. "Come on, it's worth looking. They may have left supplies behind, if nothing else."

Bolling just shrugged and hefted his rifle back up over his shoulder, the snow and dead foliage crunching loudly under his feet as he trudged after Crawford and Scott. Jasper kept an eye on him, concerned. Bolling was a man capable of imagining himself elsewhere, and rationalizing all the reasons why he should be. The weather and the inactivity were both affecting him more than some of the others.

"I'm stayin' out here," Lazarus announced. He stomped his way through a snow drift and leaned against the tilted trunk of an old sycamore, setting the butt of his rifle down on the ground in front of him. When Jasper gave him a confused look, he lifted his thick eyebrows questioningly. "What. Someone's gotta keep an eye out for Bluebellies."

Jasper shrugged. It was obvious that the old man was just tired, but he wasn't going to make him move if he didn't have to. "Holler if you see any," he allowed, and nodded at Stratling to follow him over to the cabin. Out of the corner of his vision he caught Lazarus rolling his eyes.

"'Course, sir."

The area just around the structure was free of anything taller than a scraggly bush, which had given the wind a chance to blow most of the snow away from the cabin and into the tree line. It had piled up there against the surrounding birch and witch-hazel at steep, knee-deep angles. Bolling was standing off next to a thin white trunk with his arms crossed, glaring out into the thickening trees aimlessly. Jasper let him be. There was actually a bit of bent meadow grass poking up feebly through the thin blanket of white in front of the door, where Cole and now Jacoblef were waiting for him. He kicked at it as he stepped up to the small porch lining the front of the house. Soon, he hoped, less familiar with the length of Virginia winters than he wanted to be; soon the sun would finally warm enough to melt the snow, and no more would come to cover the ground again for another eight or nine months. Hell, the war might even be over by then. Wouldn't that be nice.

"Looks completely deserted," Cole observed in a bored tone, kicking at a small bank of snow lying against the single stair leading up to the porch. "Nothin' but deer and rabbit tracks around it."

"It snowed again last night," Jasper pointed out, but silently agreed. Dark gaps showed between the logs in the wall where the resin had worn away, and the door was hanging precariously from its top hinge. Cole glanced at Jasper and shrugged.

"Well if the Yankees ever thought to use it, they ain't out here now. But look." He raised his rifle to indicate a frozen rag bunched up half-buried beneath some snow beside the door. It was evenly cut, and it was blue. A Federal rifle-cleaning cloth.

"How long do you give it?" Jasper wanted to know, poking at it with the muzzle of his own rifle. He knew his way around a trail, but Cole was the experienced tracker among them. It seemed to him like it'd been lying out there for a couple days, at least.

Cole sighed and knocked Jasper's rifle aside, then bent and pulled off his glove to examine the scrap with his bare fingers. He frowned. "Impossible to tell. It's too damn cold up here, and there's too much water in the air all the time. Might'a been dropped last week, but it could have been dropped last night, too. I don't know."

"Well as long as it wasn't dropped this morning," Jacoblef reasoned cheerfully, and offered a hand to help Cole up. Cole took it gratefully, shivering as he struggled to shove his hand back into his glove. Beside them Stratling shifted his weight uneasily.

"Should we really be here, if the Yankees've been?" he wanted to know. "They might come back."

"It's supper time," Jacoblef said dismissively. He slung an arm around Stratling's shoulders and started dragging him inside, the old porch wood groaning and creaking in protest beneath their combined weight. "If they were smart—which I ain't sayin' they are—but if they were any kind of smart at all, they'd be holin' up for the night instead of haulin' tail all the way out here just to set up a watch in a cabin don't nobody care about. And if they decide to come down here after all, well." He made a gun-shape with his thumb and forefinger and grinned. "We'll just pick 'em off, won't we? Everybody knows a Bluebelly can't shoot straight to save his mother's life."

Behind them, Cole rolled his eyes at Jacoblef's blind faith. He did have a point, though, Jasper replied in a glance, and together the pair followed them in through the door. Jasper's curiosity for the place was growing despite himself. It wasn't very often they stumbled across an unmarked, uninhabited dwelling during one of their patrols.

The interior was dark and dusty, but dry. Clunks, thumps, and shuffles reverberated across the wooden floor as Scott and Crawford moved around on the opposite end of the single room, debating over something Jasper wasn't overly concerned about. Stratling and Jacoblef left the doorway to join them, though, which left Jasper and Cole room to squint inside uselessly while their eyes slowly adjusted from the sun's bright glare on the snow outside.

The place was falling apart, Jasper noticed, but it was fairly large. And empty, save a sturdy-looking table and a few rickety old chairs. The stairs leading up to the second floor were crooked and half-rotted with age, and added to the stale, musty smell that seemed to permeate the place; wet wood mixed with dirt and decay, barely able to mask the lingering stench of sweating bodies. Jasper ventured a little further in and stepped aside, mindful of the crunch of heavy footsteps a little ways behind him as Bolling came to see what all the fuss was about.

Crawford and Scott had moved to the far corner, and were now arguing over the rights to something small enough to fit in their hands. A pack of playing cards, Jasper realized; further proof that the Yankees had been here recently. Jacoblef and Stratling had abandoned them for the corner across from the door, where they were kicking at a stinking pile of blankets and furs and wondering loudly what had died underneath it, calling out bets before they looked. Otherwise, though, there was nothing to see. All of the glass in the windows had been broken and cleared. The hearth was empty, and the pegs on the walls were bare. Yankees may have hidden inside as early as the previous night, but it didn't look like anyone had actually lived here in a while.

"Probably just an old hunting cabin," Cole remarked in a bored tone, leaning his rifle against the wall just inside the door. He stepped further inside, glancing down in mild alarm when the floorboards creaked a loud warning. But they didn't give in, so he sighed and glanced over at Jasper. "Not on any maps, though. We should probably report it."

Jasper nodded. He would make sure credit went to Stratling, who'd seen it first, and smiled a little as he watched the man kick the furs aside and grimace at the stench that rose up from them. Jacoblef laughed and shoved him into them playfully. Jasper set the butt of his rifle against the floor and watched, content for now that his men had something to do. He wasn't sure what he was going to do with them when the excitement from their patrols had worn off, and they went back to being the cold, restless, sorry lot they'd been a week ago.

The light cascading in through the doorway disappeared suddenly as Bolling filled it, looking annoyed as he blinked and squinted into the darkness. "What is this place?" he wanted to know. Then his eyes lit on the table, which looked old, but fully intact, and he arched an eyebrow in surprise. "No one's scrapped it yet?"

"No one knows it's here," Cole told him, then shrugged. "Should probably take whatever you want before they do."

Bolling made a face as he glanced around, scuffing his boot distastefully against the floor. "It smells like something died in here."

"Something did!" Jacoblef laughed from the corner. He was holding Stratling down despite the man's protests. Not quite a man yet, though, Jasper observed. Older than him, obviously, since nearly everyone in the army was, but not by much.

There was a crunch of snow behind him suddenly, and he turned to see Lazarus's hulking form fill the doorway behind Bolling, blocking out whatever light was left. "Been hearin' snaps," he said softly, glancing at Scott and Crawford, who were too busy arguing still to take notice. Jasper glanced at Cole, though, who frowned. Bolling moved out of the doorway in alarm.

"Snaps?"

Lazarus nodded. "Out in the woods," he clarified. "Could be a herd of deer, but I doubt it. Too early, too cold. Branches are too bare."

"Where were they coming from?" Jasper asked somewhat anxiously, his pulse quickening. It wasn't like Lazarus to treat him like a commander; it made him listen, suddenly on the alert. He noticed now that Lazarus had cocked the rifle in his hand.

"From where the Feds would be."

"Get everyone inside," Bolling suggested. "Shut them up, get them down. If it's a Federal patrol, maybe they'll pass right by."

"No," Jasper objected. Hiding inside would trap them there if they were discovered. They needed to get out and find cover elsewhere, and be in a position to take the Yankees by surprise if it came to that; somewhere advantageous, where they could, if found, take the offensive rather than the defensive. Where they could keep an eye on whoever or whatever was actually out there. And if it really _was_ just a herd of deer, well, maybe they could eat well that night.

"Everyone out!" he called sharply. He hated to spoil the men's fun needlessly, but they were too close to the Federal picket line to take any chances, and he was willing to annoy them a little if the alternative meant risking their lives.

Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked up at him, but only with a passing curiosity; Stratling used Jacoblef's distraction to kick at his shins, and Crawford quickly snatched the playing cards out of Scott's hands. Both pairs started right back up again. Annoyed—but not really surprised—Jasper took a deep breath and tried again.

"I said _out_!"

He squeezed by Lazarus with his rifle in his hand, cocked it quickly, began peering around the woods for any sign of movement. There was none. There was a sound, though; soft and muted by the snow, but growing very steadily louder, and all the more recognizable. Jasper stepped back quickly and stumbled over Bolling, who'd stepped out behind him.

"Ow! What—?"

"In!" Jasper demanded. "_In!_"

The men were confused, but they'd seen him cock his rifle, Cole and Bolling quickly following suit, and the atmosphere in the room turned suddenly serious.

"Sir?" Jacoblef asked cautiously. He stepped away from Stratling and brought his own rifle down off his back, gripping it hesitantly, watching Jasper tug the broken door somewhat closed with a frown. "Is there something out there?"

The sound had grown louder, and was now unmistakable: horses were approaching, a lot of them, and everyone froze as they caught it. Metallic scuffles briefly filled the cabin as rifles were brought down and readied, and then a series of clicks as they were cocked. Jasper motioned to get down as he crouched low himself, shuffling awkwardly over to the nearest broken window. There wasn't much dust on the sill, he noticed now, but there were small niches carved into the wood to rest rifles in. He cursed at his own carelessness. This was probably a fortified post along the outskirts of the Federal picket line. It'd been a while since anyone had scouted this particular area, and the Bluebellies had obviously expanded out into it during their absence.

"It could be something else," Cole suggested, frowning at the look on Jasper's face as he squatted down beside him. A moment later, though, he winced as an unmistakable whinny cut through the air, followed closely by a series of unintelligible commands and the heavy jangle of military equipment. Jasper gave Cole a dry look, then glanced back at Crawford, who had crouched down with Scott under the window opposite. Crawford answered his inquisitive expression with a wild look, and beside him Scott tightened his hands around his rifle grimly. So the Feds were out there, too.

"We're trapped in here," Lazarus pointed out, his voice dull. Jasper looked up to see him peering over at him emotionlessly, kneeling clumsily on the opposite side of the door. He couldn't tell if Lazarus was disappointed or smug, if either. It just figured that Jasper would lead the older man into an ambush on their first patrol together, he acknowledged in annoyance. Now the old man had valid reason to think he was a bumbling fool.

"How did they know we were in here in the first place?" Crawford hissed. "Did they see you?"

"Maybe they heard _you_," Lazarus grunted back with a glare.

"Hush, there were probably just scouts out," Cole broke in, leveling stern looks at them both.

"Well whatever's out there now ain't scouts," Bolling said nervously, his eyes on the ceiling as he listened. "Sounds more like cavalry." He drummed his fingers against the stock of his rifle for a moment, then gritted his teeth and turned to peek out the window. His face went white. A lump caught in Jasper's throat, and he shifted to look out beside him.

Horses were gathering just twenty yards away from the cabin, the men on their backs dressed in unmistakable blue. Some of them were on foot, their uniforms dusted with snow; they crouched down immediately and readied their rifles, taking careful aim at the windows and door. Most set up a second rear perimeter and steadied their horses as they drew revolvers instead, hands on their sabers. Jasper craned his neck to peer behind him and saw the same thing happening through the other window.

He breezed very quickly through his options. There was no time to fire at them; there were too many, and while they might bring down a couple, the rest would quickly overwhelm them. There had to be at least a hundred out there, and it looked like they knew who they'd cornered; there was nowhere for them to hide, just as he'd feared. He cursed again.

A company. He'd led his men smack dab into the territory of a Federal company, and he hadn't even noticed. How had that just happened?

"Hold your fire!" an officer announced, in a strangely sharp accent that Jasper had only heard before in passing. He ducked away from the window and motioned for his men to do the same, instead leaning his back against the wall beside it as he peeled his gloves off and checked to make sure his rifle was in working order. He didn't know what he was going to do here, no idea how any of them were going to get out of this alive, but he damned well wasn't going into it unarmed.

There were only windows on the two walls opposite each other, and they were each on different sides of the cabin. The Yankees wouldn't be able to fire through one and pick at the men crouched below the other—not unless they had curving bullets, which, Jasper mused grimly, wouldn't surprise him at this point. They were rumored to have all kinds of unfamiliar weaponry. The second floor might offer a nice view of the opposition, but getting up there could be tricky. He didn't trust those stairs.

"Sir," Bolling whispered from the other side of his window. His eyes were on Jasper's hands as he worked. "Sir, we can't possibly survive an attack. I think I got snow in my breech earlier, and—"

"Then shove over," Cole griped, elbowing him aside. Lazarus had taken up a more comfortable position on one side of the crooked door, Jacoblef and Stratling on the other. They were all looking at him for orders, Jasper realized suddenly. Damn it. He wished he could think of some to give.

For now he motioned for them to keep their heads down and their mouths shut. The last thing he needed was for someone to be shot by some nervous Yankee greenhorn just for making themselves an easy target.

One of the horses outside was approaching, announcing itself with an annoyed snort and a series of cracks as it broke through a thin wall of witch-hazel. Jasper stuffed his gloves in his coat pocket and grimaced when that same voice from before spoke up again, from what sounded like just the other side of the infantry line.

"This is Lieutenant Colonel Burke of the 37th New York Infantry!" He let that sink in for a moment, his voice sharp in the otherwise silent forest. "We have you surrounded, rebels, you may as well just give up. Surrender and we won't fire."

Jasper glanced around at his men uneasily, his hands tightening around his rifle barrel. They _could_ surrender. It would be humiliating, though, and possibly lethal; there was no guarantee that they wouldn't be painfully interrogated, or simply neglected to the point of starvation. It was still a harsh winter, and everyone was having trouble transporting supplies, the Yankees included. He didn't think POWs were allowed at the front of any mess lines.

But Jacoblef in particular was shaking his head fervently, a fierce glare on his face. Jasper raised an eyebrow in surprise. Stratling was watching his friend nervously, so he didn't notice when Jasper's glance slid over to him. Lazarus did, though, and nodded grimly in agreement with Jacoblef. Scott and Crawford were both paper-white, but wearing identical determined looks. They hugged their rifles close to their chests and nodded as well. Bolling was shaking. Cole just grinned.

"Did you really think we were gonna give in to the first Bluebelly bullies tryin' to run us down?" he whispered. Jasper felt a surge of pride for his platoon, clawing its way up through the nerves tangling in his gut. He was scared too—this was hardly where he wanted to die, no more than a mile from an entire division of his own men in the first enemy entanglement he'd stumbled upon—but he recognized the risks. If they were lucky, someone from the division would hear their fire through the still air and come to back them up before all of them died. And if they weren't, well. Maybe Burke and his men would keep pressing forward instead of hauling their tiny group back to his camp on the other side of the Occoquan, and get themselves captured instead. He wondered if Burke had any idea how deep into enemy territory he was. Either way, surrender wasn't a very desirable option.

He swallowed hard as he forced himself to accept his own decision. To hell with his age; had he been trained for this or not?

"You," he mouthed, pointing at Stratling. He waited a moment for the man's full attention as he struggled to figure out who would be best where. Then he pointed at Bolling, too, and at Crawford: "You, you. Follow me." He pointed up. The men glanced at the roof, then over at the stairs. Crawford was closest, and always tended to listen to Jasper's orders without much hesitation. He dropped to the floor and began crawling over with a muffled series of scuffs, Stratling mimicking his movement right on his heels. Bolling had to cross beneath Jasper's window, though, and he hesitated. Cole shoved the medic's head down and hissed for him to get moving.

"Man your positions," Jasper mouthed at the remaining privates, hugging his rifle close so that he could make sure they understood through the hand code they'd all been taught. "Don't fire unless we do. Don't look—just shoot. They're bunched close enough that you're bound to nick one. Keep quiet. _Keep down._"

Cole nodded to him, taking up his position beside the window and leaning back against the wall beside it as Jasper dropped to his belly and followed Bolling. He tried focusing all of his attention on keeping his movements quiet so that he'd have none left to second-guess his decisions. He would have liked Jacoblef's eyes and Lazarus's steady hands, but they were big men, and he didn't trust either of them on the stairs; Crawford was the smallest of all of them, Stratling wasn't much larger, and he himself was about the same size. Bolling's height was pushing it, but he was all knees and elbows, and Jasper wanted him up where he couldn't get himself shot at accidentally, especially if he was temporarily down a functioning rifle. The man was a medic, not an infantryman; he'd been trained with the rest of them, but he'd never taken to it. Cole would have been a welcome addition, but he needed someone who could think for himself down on the ground; he didn't trust Scott and Crawford together without him around, they were too trigger-happy and hadn't seen enough combat to learn how to think through the fear it inspired. Cole hadn't either, but Jasper suspected that his friend was intelligent enough to force his mind over that hurdle anyway.

_Suspected_, he thought with a scowl. This really wasn't the kind of situation he'd been hoping to test everyone with.

The stairs really were a hazard; they creaked and groaned loudly when Crawford crawled onto them, and didn't stop until after everyone had reached the top. They didn't break, either, but they bent threateningly, and they more than gave their movements away to the enemy outside. Jasper winced. But they had to do it; none of them stood a chance all balled up together on the ground floor like that, and he needed to see exactly what was going on if he wanted to make good decisions instead of bad ones.

He hoped _this_ was a good decision. He didn't want to get his men killed in a stupid fit of heroics, but for them, surrender was far worse; there'd be no living to fight another day, and taking yourselves out at the beginning of the entire damn war was just…_unacceptable_, especially after the months of inactivity they'd just suffered through. They'd all wanted action and, well, here it was. They might not survive it, but Jasper was determined to help them take out as many Yankee Bluebellies as they could beforehand.

"You're acting rashly," Burke called out to them as they moved, probably well aware of what they were doing. "We know there are only ten of you; there's no way you can win."

The stairwell, at least, hadn't been used in a while. It smelled like mildew and dirt, and dust swirled heavily around their boots as they climbed. Crawford nearly sneezed, grabbed his nose to stop himself, and then laughed silently instead. "Ten?" He snickered softly. "Well I guess Lazarus could look like two if you really didn't know no better."

Jasper nodded at him to keep moving, silently hoping that Crawford was just exceptionally good at keeping his head in dangerous circumstances rather than currently losing it to a developing case of hysteria.

He could hear Burke murmuring something to his men as they reached the top and fanned out against the wall they'd come out of, crouched low to the ground with their rifles at the ready. The second floor seemed darker than the first, somehow. There was only one window in the center of the front wall, its glass broken but intact. In the corner was a space between two of the logs where the resin had rotted away, less than three inches tall and a good foot wide. Jasper motioned to Crawford, then at the hole; it was large enough to shoot through and low enough that he could lie against the ground and steady his shots. The Yankees would have a hard time getting a bullet through there, he'd be as safe as Jasper could make him.

"You back him up," he whispered to Bolling, unable to come up with anything else for the medic to do. "And you—" he pointed to Stratling, unsure whether he should leave the newcomer on his own or not "—stick by me," he decided a second later. "Only fire when I'm reloading. Go."

They went. Jasper had to stifle a sigh of relief. His men liked him, sure, and they got along all right, but he was as green as the rest of them, and looked a few years younger to boot. Drilling was one thing; none of their lives were on the line, and they were under the supervision of Jasper's superiors. Actually following him into battle, though, and trusting his judgment there…that was quite another. Jasper had half-expected them to rebel against him and elect Lazarus their senior instead. He wasn't sure what to think of the fact that they hadn't.

Outside one of the horses stamped and snorted impatiently, and Burke could be heard reining his in. "This is your last chance, rebels!" he barked, sounding annoyed. Jasper was careful to keep his rifle from clunking against the floor as he settled his back against the wall beside the window, Stratling looking queasy but determined on the other side of it. Crawford was setting up against the floor, and Bolling was poking around in the breech of his rifle with an annoyed look on his face. Jasper took the time to shed his gear and set his rifle aside.

"Wait," Stratling spoke up suddenly, confused, "sir, what are you doing? What—"

Jasper put a finger to his lips.. He couldn't very well raise a gun like that and shoot it at anyone before getting picked off himself, he reasoned, so he unclipped the belt on his waist and drew the revolver he'd brought with him from Texas instead, his father's prized gun that he'd always had an eye on, but had never been allowed to touch until he'd decided to enlist. Stratling blinked as he pulled it out from under his coat and into sight.

It was a cavalry-edition LeMat, and the only thing he could think of that might buy them a little time right now. He always kept it loaded, checked it every morning, resealed the wax that kept the snow out. A lot of tedious work, but a good habit to get into, his father had assured him, and he was glad for it now. His thumb brushed over the tiny lever sticking out from the back of the hammer, and he repositioned his hand around it until the grip felt as good and comfortable as he could manage. He'd only fired this thing a few times before, and the stock still felt a little too big. He'd practiced holding it a lot, though, during his confinement to their camp, and he hoped that was enough.

Crouching low again, he took off his hat and tossed it aside, then carefully—nervously, but oh so carefully—turned so that his shoulder was against the wall and lifted his head to peek out over the window frame. Not all of the remaining glass hung from the top, but his view from the lower corner was relatively unobstructed. So was Burke's.

The lieutenant colonel wasn't exactly getting on in years, but he was definitely old enough for his rank; tall and thinnish inside his thick blue coat, his mustache trimmed thin and carefully curled. He smirked as he caught sight of Jasper in the window above him, his rifle laid out across his arm as he sat straight and proud on a stocky chestnut mare. Behind him was a wall of cavalry. In front of him was a wall of infantry. It curled around the cabin nearly ten yards out, which worried Jasper. The lower barrel of his revolver was deadly at close range, but this was cutting it awful close.

"Comfortable?" Burke asked smugly. There had to be fifty rifles trained on the cabin in Jasper's view alone—two platoons, at least, one cavalry and one infantry. That gave them each less than twenty-to-one odds of surviving. He swallowed thickly. Not good.

He ducked down again to check his LeMat one last time, which evidently annoyed the Yankee, because he barked up at them sharply: "Last chance, rebels! Toss down your rifles, or we'll bring ours up!"

Jasper looked once more at his men. They didn't look back. Crawford was busy concentrating on keeping his rifle from glinting in the sunlight as he took aim, Bolling shaking out the rag he'd used to clean the snow out of his breech, Stratling mouthing a prayer to himself as he moved his hand up and down his gun and finally settled on the trigger. When he noticed Jasper watching he took a deep breath and nodded, offering him a shaky grin.

And that was enough for Jasper. If an unfamiliar private from an unfamiliar company was willing to follow him into this idiocy, then he was hardly one to back down from it himself.

"Well?" Burke demanded. Jasper peeked over the windowsill again, and pretended to consider the Yankee's words as he rearranged his grip on his revolver, thumbed the lever to make sure it was in the right position, tugged back on the trigger to make sure the safety was off. He took a deep breath and tried to calm the swarm of hornets swirling around in his stomach. And then, in as quick a motion as he could, he craned his arm up over his head and fired a spray of buckshot down into the Federal line. An instant later he pulled back his gun and ducked again, trying not to wince as his shoulder throbbed from absorbing the recoil at such an awkward angle.

A dozen rifles went off at once; horses whinnied, a few probably reared; men screamed, probably in surprise more than pain; more rifles went off, and this time they were closer. Jasper looked over to see Bolling handing his newly loaded rifle off to Crawford, then bend over and squint at his powder as he focused on reloading the spent one as quickly as possible. Below him another rifle went off; Lazarus had always been fast to reload, or maybe he carried a sidearm as well. Stratling moved to fire, but Jasper shoved him back again.

"When I'm reloading!" he reminded the private, then cocked his revolver again, flipped the lever up into its standard position, and fired off a blind shot. More chaos erupted as his men added to the fray. Bullets cracked against the wood at Jasper's back, but he gritted his teeth and trusted the old cabin to hold itself together for just a few more minutes.

He cocked and fired again; twisted his arm a little, again; again—he hoped the buckshot had at least scattered them a little. It was rarely deadly from this far away, but it was hard to fire with a piece of iron in your eye, your hand, your chest—hard enough that they'd flinched, he hoped, and given his men a chance to pick off a few and intimidate the rest.

Stratling shifted into the window after his sixth shot; it took Jasper a moment to realize that he must have assumed it was a six-shooter instead of a nine-. He yanked the man back by his collar and cursed when Stratling's rifle went off, pointed uselessly up at the sky. A Federal bullet whizzed through the corner of the window where Stratling had just been and lodged itself into the roof with a shower of tiny wooden debris. "_When I reload!_" he hissed again, as Stratling scrambled to pull his supplies off his belt and reload. Jasper used the private's distraction to quickly fire off his last three shots.

"How we doing, Cole?" he called out loudly, stuffing his now useless LeMat back into its holster and snatching up his rifle; there was no time to load the revolver now, in the heat of an actual battle. Stratling was grumbling to himself, on his knees pouring powder into the barrel with hands that shook with annoyance and adrenaline now rather than fear. Jasper heard Cole whoop and cackle in reply, and a moment later Jacoblef's untrembling tenor rose up through the floorboards:

"_Oh they fought like the devil when the battle first begun, but they took to their heels, boys, you oughtta seen 'em run!_"

Jasper fought back an adrenaline-fueled grin, getting back to his knees beside the window and leaning into it from the side. He was careful to leave only his arm and shoulder visible as he fired off a quick volley into the mass of smoke and motion spread out below them. He only caught a quick glimpse of the Yankees, but it looked like some of them were lying motionless on the ground; others were squirming in obvious pain. The nearest horses' chests were speckled red. His grin widened as he bent again to reload, finally allowing Stratling to fire off a shot from the opposite corner of the window. Damn Bluebellies should have known better than to think any group of Dixies would give in without raising a little hell first, he thought smugly, their numbers be damned.

A few moments later he fired again, narrowly avoiding a bullet as it whizzed by over his shoulder. Stratling took another shot as well. In the corner Crawford was busy ramming a ball down into his rifle, and Bolling had crawled across the floor with his own to peer through a small crack on the other side of the room, in a weathered crease between the resin and two rotting logs. It was too small to risk shooting through without getting hit by ricochet, but just large enough for him to see by, out the back, towards camp. Jasper felt a small thrill at the thought of reinforcements arriving.

"You see anyone coming, Bolling?" he called out, then leaned out into the window again, fired off into the fray, and quickly crouched down before he could be retaliated against. Bolling was quiet, but beside him Stratling jerked suddenly and choked. Liquid warmth spattered over Jasper. He froze and stared at the back of his arm, wondering stupidly for a moment where all the tiny droplets of red had come from. He hadn't _felt_ any impact…

"Get down, you idiot!" Crawford shouted from across the room. The private's face was even whiter than before as he stared in horror up at Stratling. Jasper's brain finally snapped into gear at his expression, and he dropped his rifle carelessly to peer up at his charge. It went off as it clattered to the ground; Bolling jumped and cursed as the bullet lodged into the wood not two feet away from him with a small poof of shattered chips. Jasper hardly noticed; he grabbed at the elbows of Stratling's coat and yanked the man hard to the floor, the two of them falling together in an unnaturally warm and sticky mess. He blanched when he caught the surprised look on Stratling's face, and the tangle of pinkish red and white that had been the side of his throat just beneath his jaw.

"_Hold it!_" he ordered harshly, gritting his teeth as he did the first thing he could think of; he grabbed one of his gloves and pressed it hard to the wound, hoping it would help to staunch some of the bleeding without closing off anything vital. Stratling raised his hands to help, but they shook uselessly, his eyes wide with pain, confusion, and fear. Jasper cursed and tried to struggle out of his overcoat, desperate for something more absorbent than his skin or his glove, which was already soaked and useless. Overhead bullets continued to zing by through the open window, and the frenzied confusion outside was beginning to sound more and more like an organized offense.

"They're gatherin' again, sir!" Crawford called out from his sharpshooting position. "They're gonna storm through the door in a minute—they know we can't kill 'em all on the way in!"

"Just keep firing!" Jasper ordered desperately, his thoughts too tangled in this, more pressing situation to focus on their larger one. He had his outer coat off now, the body of it laid over Stratling's quivering form as he pressed the shoulder tightly against his throat. "Bolling!" he demanded. The man didn't move, just continued to peer nervously out through that crack as he worried his lip between his teeth. Jasper cursed. "_Bolling_, damn it, I need you _here_—!"

The medic whooped suddenly, loudly, and launched himself to his feet so that he could stride quickly across the room. Jasper thought he was coming to help with Stratling, but instead he stepped right over the man's prone form and filled the window, a damned sitting duck. He waved to the Yankees with a big, elated grin on his face and grabbed his hat off his head to throw triumphantly down on the snow below. "You hear that, boys?" he yelled excitedly. "Hampton's coming, I can hear him on the bridge!"

A holler went up from below; Jacoblef, Jasper recognized, Cole hot on his heels. Even Lazarus's booming bass joined in. Jasper thought his heart might have actually skipped a beat; such a feeling of relief rolled through him that he trembled as he cupped Stratling's neck.

"It's fine," he murmured thickly, meeting the man's eyes. They were growing a little cloudy. Jasper leaned right over him and patted his cheek, his relief tumbling back into worry again at how pale he looked. "_Hey_, Stratling, it's _fine_, Hampton's on his way here with the South Carolina legion, you hear? They heard the shots. You're gonna be _fine_."

Hands shoved roughly at his shoulders as Bolling knelt beside him, pushing Jasper aside to make room. "Go," he instructed sharply, reaching behind him for his rucksack of supplies. There wasn't a hint of the relief on his face that had been all over it just a moment ago. When Jasper hesitated, confused and unwilling to relieve the pressure on Stratling's throat for even a moment, Bolling growled at him. "_Now_, Lieutenant. I need to see for myself!"

Jasper jerked out of his way, but he stuck close to watch, unconcerned with the Yankee troops now that help was on the way. Bolling peeled the now soaking coat away from Stratling's neck and leaned over the man so that Jasper couldn't see his face anymore, just his hands, smeared with blood and a little gunpowder, and still shaking. He took one and squeezed. His own were dripping crimson and quickly cooling in the cold air, until it felt like they'd been plunged into the snow outside. He barely noticed. All he could think was that he didn't want this man to die. Not someone who didn't even belong to his company, not on his watch, not _right beside him_ where he was supposed to be _safe_, and definitely not way out here in the middle of near-Yankee nowhere.

He'd never had anyone die on him before. His father had always kept a level head around the Comanche; Jasper and their hired help had always trusted his orders, always been careful not to reveal themselves carelessly, never fallen victim to anything but a negligible scrape. Jasper had always _followed_ orders, he wasn't fit yet to be _giving_ any. His father had been right; he was too young, too inexperienced, too rash, too small, too _everything_, and here was the proof right in front of him_._

"Fix him," he told Bolling, his voice rough and his throat tight. But the doctor was shaking his head, which sent an unexpectedly hot flash of anger through Jasper. He was grabbing at the man's sleeve with his free hand before he knew what he was doing.

"Damn it, Bolling, this is your _job_. _Do it_."

"He took a bullet to the _throat_, Lieutenant!" Bolling snapped back, then slumped a little as he eased the pressure off of Stratling's neck. "I don't have the materials I need here, I can't even get him to swallow any morphine. He was gone before you pulled him to the floor."

Jasper pressed his coat there in Bolling's stead, mimicking where he'd seen the medic hold his fingers, squeezing Stratling's hand tightly with his free one. Maybe Bolling was right and he was just prolonging the inevitable, making the man suffer needlessly rather than die quickly, or maybe he was helping him hold on just long enough for more help to come. He didn't know. Hampton's men were crossing the bridge, and that wasn't more than a quarter-mile back. They might have a surgeon with them, morphine in a syringe, real supplies—

"Hampton's not there," Bolling told him dully, his eyes on the puddle of blood pooling steadily beneath Stratling's head. "There's no help coming, no legion or nothin'. It hit the artery, Lieutenant, _and _tore his trachea all to hell. They'd have a hard time saving him even if he was in the infirmary right now."

Jasper ignored him, his heart pounding loudly enough in his ears that he hoped he'd misheard. He didn't want to think about no help coming, about how Cole and Lazarus and Scott were faring downstairs with no real backup, about how Stratling might be on his feet right now if he hadn't been stupid and had swallowed his pride long enough to just _surrender_. Weren't lives more important, anyway? Hadn't his father knocked he and his brothers around for that very thing every time they'd done something stupidly brash around one of the bulls? What had made him _forget_ that?

Stratling was still struggling to breathe; he was making odd gasping noises deep in his throat that hitched oddly beneath Jasper's fingertips. He grit his teeth and forced himself to pull them away. There was no light left in Stratling's eyes. He was a jerking sow after it'd gotten its neck slit; nothing left but fight and instinct, and sometimes that just wasn't enough. Bolling reached around him and closed Stratling's eyes before they could freeze open. They were brown with little flecks of green; Jasper hadn't noticed before.

"I'm sorry, Jasper," he said regretfully, resting a heavy hand on Jasper's shoulder. It was trembling. "There was nothing I could do," he continued shakily. "Even if…I mean, it cut his _jugular_, I don't carry around the tools for that…"

"Go check on the other men," Jasper told him. Bolling didn't move, so Jasper elbowed him until he did. "Go. Now. Make sure everyone else is fine." Bolling hesitated, still eyeing Stratling uneasily, but Jasper elbowed him hard enough for it to hurt, and that got him going. Jasper sighed in relief as he headed over to Crawford. Good. The man needed something to do, something to take his mind off of what had just happened, so that he didn't have a chance to dwell too deeply on it. Later they'd talk. This hadn't been Bolling's fault, he had to make sure his friend knew that. In the meantime, though, he had to keep the medic distracted enough to prevent him from deciding that it was.

Stratling was still now, his arms limp, and the red puddle staining the floorboards beneath him had finally stopped spreading. Jasper pulled his coat up over the man's face and hoped he'd been the only casualty they'd sustained today. He knew, rationally, that it was unrealistic to think that none of his men had been hurt in a firefight with twenty times their number, but he _had_ to. Stratling was bad enough, having accompanied Jasper all the way out here trusting that he'd keep him safe like a good lieutenant was supposed to; he didn't think he could handle watching anyone he'd gotten to know way back in Galveston go through something like that.

Maybe that made him selfish. Maybe he was only stalling right now so that he wouldn't have to find out about the rest of his troops, and that made him cowardly. He didn't know, but it was hard to think otherwise with evidence to both frosting crimson all over his overcoat.

"Sir." Someone was tugging at his sleeve. It took a moment for him to realize that it was Crawford, and that the private was trembling with relief rather than fear. "Sir, come see. It worked. Doc Bolling drove 'em all off. They ran so fast, they left their dead behind."

"Dead?" Jasper echoed. He peeled his eyes away from Stratling's prone form to look up at the soldier, confused. Crawford grinned a little and nodded enthusiastically.

"Looks like we got a good bunch of 'em," he said proudly. "Stratling got one himself, I seen it. And someone downstairs got the one what got him. Soon as they heard us hollerin' about the general they took off with their tails between their legs."

Jasper perked up a little at that. "They're gone?" He wanted to make sure. That any of them had survived this long was a miracle, but there was still that ruckus going on outside—

"That's Cole and Jacoblef," Crawford told him with a grin when he turned to frown at the window. "You should see 'em. Come on—"

"I can't—"

He looked helplessly at Stratling. He couldn't just _leave_ the man here. Hope was beginning to well up inside of him, but it was having a hard time working its way up through the guilt. If Crawford was right, they'd gotten lucky. Stratling hadn't. Maybe if he'd stopped to think things through a little more—put Stratling at the chink in the corner instead of Crawford and Bolling—

There was a sudden pounding on the stairs, and then a loud, wooden crack as one shattered. Cole exploded into laughter and evidently hauled himself up out of the hole, because he appeared in the doorway a few moments later with splinters clinging to his trouser legs.

"We got 'em, Jazz!" he announced proudly. "Went out and counted! Nearly five—"

He stopped short when he caught sight of the bloody coat on the floor, his face paling. "Aw, Jesus, tell me that ain't—"

"Nearly?" Jasper interrupted. He didn't want to have to have to think about what he'd let happen to Stratling again—not so soon, and not if Burk's troops had really pulled back. "What does nearly mean?"

"It means…" Cole changed his mind suddenly and shook his head, his mouth setting into a thin line. "Nothin'. It don't mean nothin'."

Jasper narrowed his eyes, but Cole didn't open his mouth again. Instead he glowered right back. Jasper found it annoying, his nerves already frayed, and shoved himself up to his feet haughtily. He stepped over Stratling's boots to the window to make sure the Feds were really gone, only half able to believe it, unable to think of _what_ to think if it was actually true.

Below him the snow was trampled down half-buried beneath a spiky mess of mud and a little blood, and the smoke from the Federal rifles was still wafting gently up into the trees. Four men in blue laid motionless on the ground, the snow beneath their uniforms dyed bright red. A speckled gelding lay a little further off, its body steaming as it cooled. Lazarus and Jacoblef were talking with Bolling just outside the door, their voices hushed and lacking any of the excitement they'd held just moments ago. Jasper turned away. He didn't care to overhear the news they were receiving.

"Where's Scott?" he wanted to know, then noticed the private peeking his head up from the top of the stairs, his hat missing. A trickle of blood ran gently down the angles of his face from his hairline, along his temple, and it made Jasper's insides clench. "You're hurt?"

Scott shook his head and looked up at him, then blanched. "Aw, Mary and Joseph. I'm sorry, sir. I didn't know—"

"You're not hurt?" Jasper interrupted anxiously. Scott ran a hand up into his hair and revealed a bloody—but shallow—gash there.

"Got nicked," he clarified, letting his short hair flick back into place. "Ruined my hat, but left my head okay. What happened—"

"Go get the captain," Jasper cut him off, his face stern. Scott was the fastest runner among them; he'd be able to get news back to camp the quickest. And they needed to know quickly, in case Burke decided to return with reinforcements. Bolling's farce may only work on them for so long.

Scott didn't hesitate, but it took him a moment to nod, pick himself up, and disappear. There was a scuffle on the stairs when he nearly ran into someone, but they worked through it, and a moment later Jacoblef appeared. His face fell as the bloody coat on the floor confirmed whatever Bolling had explained to him. Crawford stayed silent, still kneeling at Stratling's side. Jasper, on the other hand, was beginning to feel claustrophobic. The room had been warmed a little by the gunfire, and enough smoke curled against the roof to obscure half of it, but that only made up Jasper's physical discomfort; the truth was, he didn't want to see each of his men react one by one to what had happened, and he didn't want to look helplessly down anymore on Stratling's…body.

So he grabbed his rifle and his packs up off the floor and shrugged them over his shoulders as he brushed by Jacoblef down the stairs, catching himself and slowing to step carefully over the newly broken one just in time. He chose to ignore the sound of whoever was following him.

He knew he should be happy. Things had turned out remarkably well, given their odds, but he couldn't help but wish that they'd turned out just a little bit better, and hope that their lopsided luck held out just a little bit longer, so that Scott had a chance to return with reinforcements before Burke did. He couldn't leave the post. They'd been out scouting for enemy activity and they'd found it; now they had to hold the line until others could come and help establish it.

He hadn't realized how thickly the air inside the cabin had become clogged with gun smoke until he found his way out the door again, and the relatively fresh air hit his face like a welcoming splash into a cool lake. Lazarus had taken up a guard off in the direction that Burke and his men had retreated, and Bolling was busy hopping from bluecoat to bluecoat, pressing his fingers against their necks to make sure they were actually dead. Jasper found himself wandering out of the mini-clearing into the grove of overturned snow as well, his eyes scanning the battleground thoughtfully.

He couldn't find words to express just how lucky they'd gotten. Lucky the Yankee soldiers were finicky and easy to rile, lucky they'd had the kind of cover they'd had, lucky almost everyone had kept their powder dry, lucky Bolling was a quick thinker. Lucky, lucky, lucky. Jasper turned and looked back at the cabin from where the Lt. Col had been seated. He had to squint to see into the dark cabin through the harsh glare of sunlight on all the snow. Crawford's position upstairs was completely invisible, the upper window hard to stare at without getting the sun in your eyes, and the lower one too near the reflective snow to see through. Lucky, he thought again. _Damned_ lucky. He didn't like relying on _luck_.

Cole was watching him from the doorway, and it was obvious that he was concerned, so Jasper turned away again and began picking his way out over the churned snow, only stopping in a fresh patch to bend and wipe his hands as clean as he could with the wet. He didn't really want to talk to him, or explain himself to him, or apologize to him. He didn't really want to think, either, but at least he could skip around that on his own.

He should have taken Eli out with them, he thought impatiently, frowning. He hadn't wanted the horse to trip over any hidden bracken in the snow, but Scott could have used the gelding now, and gotten to the camp and back in half the time. _Stupid_, he added, going over all of the varied mistakes he'd made during this trip—and there were many. Stupid not to bring the horse. Stupid not to check Bolling's rifle. Stupid not to have spread out and scouted around the cabin before bunching everyone up inside of it. Stupid not to have _surrendered_ when they were given the chance. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The sloshy-soft thud of footsteps sounded behind him distractingly. Jasper glanced over his shoulder to see Cole approaching, and frowned at his friend. Cole didn't waver; he hitched his rifle up a little further over his shoulder and stepped over a fallen Yankee to join Jasper near the back of what had been the Federal cavalry line.

"We did good, you know," he offered, his voice not reasoning or hesitant, just…conversational. Jasper turned back to the ground again. He didn't have to fake his huffiness.

"A man still died."

"The rest of us didn't."

"Thanks to Bolling," Jasper pointed out flatly. Cole nodded and stuffed his hands in his coat pockets, his gloves missing.

"Thanks to Bolling," he repeated. "Remind me not to poke at him later for gettin' snow in his rifle."

"He deserves a commendation," Jasper mumbled.

"Then remind _him_ not to lord it over the rest of us."

Jasper grunted. Bolling might have, if they'd all gotten through all right and the entire debacle became nothing but a funny story to tell to the rest of the regiment during supper that night, but Stratling's death toned it all down a little. Jasper wondered if he'd be reprimanded for it. He'd made a lot of rookie mistakes where there just hadn't been room for any. He _deserved_ a reprimand, if not a downright demotion. He should never have allowed the private to _accompany_ them, let alone _die_ for them.

"That one there's the one that got the Easy kid," Cole pointed out after a moment, lifting his chin in the direction of one of the nearby Bluebellies. The man was lying half-curled on his side, his firearm in his hand and one leg buried beneath the dead horse. "Lazarus got him while he was reloading. Crawford saw it, he said just now."

Jasper glanced back at the cabin to catch a glimpse of Crawford and Jacoblef watching them from the porch with their rifles on their backs, hands stuffed deep into their pockets. He turned back to the fallen Yankee soldier and considered the weapon in the man's hand for a moment. Then he began trudging over.

Cole followed, but said nothing as Jasper crouched down near the horse's craned neck and reached over to pry the revolver out of the Yankee's loose fingers. The man's only wound seemed to be the neat bullet hole marring the center of a wet red blossom on the front of his coat, right over his heart. Jasper made a mental note to commend Lazarus's sharpshooting skills later. He didn't know if the old man knew this had been the Yankee to catch Stratling or not, but that had been a damned good shot either way.

Cole managed to keep some distance between himself and the dead man by remaining on the other side of the horse, but it wasn't Jasper's first time this close to a body, so he used the relative privacy to turn the revolver over in his hands and study it. It looked new, probably only a couple of years old at most. A loading lever was mounted beneath the barrel. Six shots, and the grip felt nice in his palm. He thumbed at some kind of engraving around the chamber, then half-cocked it and nudged the wedge loose along the barrel. It took a moment to pry loose from the arbor, but when he did, he revealed three remaining shots. He held the chamber up for Cole to see.

"Lazarus might've saved three of us, if this guy was such a good shot," he remarked dryly. Cole held out a pink hand for it and stood back to admire the engraving himself.

"I think this is one of them new Colts," he guessed after a moment, rubbing off a little mud. He handed it back to Jasper. "A few boys back at camp have 'em. Keep it. They're supposed to be nice, and we might not get anything new through that blockade they're chokin' us with."

"Naw," Jasper argued gently, piecing it back together again with fingers growing increasingly stiff with cold. The barrel was really stubborn, but he was hardly surprised; it was obvious the Yank didn't know how to properly care for it, or it'd have been better greased. When it was back in one piece he rotated the barrel until the hammer rested between two empty chambers, then held it up to study properly again with a sigh. "I'll give it to E Company. I'm sure he had friends there, and they could use this better'n I could. There's no lanyard. Couldn't fire it from horseback if I wanted."

"You an' your fancy lanyards," Cole snorted, grinning wryly as he reached again for the gun. "Big baby. Who says you can't just hang on to it till things slow down enough to reload?"

"On my horse's back?" Jasper asked with a raised eyebrow. He offered Cole a twisted smirk as he pushed himself up to his feet again and took back the Colt. "Even the Bluebellies wouldn't have a hard time hittin' that. Naw, my LeMat's fine. This one can go to Easy. I'm sure they'll appreciate it."

Cole shrugged, his hands disappearing into his pockets again. He huddled down into his coat again and tried not to act like his rifle bothered him as it bumped up against the back of his head. Jasper tucked the Federal gun loosely into his belt and made sure it would stay there before turning back to the cabin.

"Come on. We need to set up some kind of a defense in case the Yanks come back before Scott does." He should have done so immediately after sending the private off, he knew, but he'd been having trouble thinking then. Now that some of the smoke had lifted and the crisp winter air had helped to clear his head again, he felt a little better qualified to take command of the situation at hand rather than avoid it.

And he was growing cold again without his coat. He hoped he would be issued a new one, because the thought of surviving the remainder of the winter in just his outer uniform was downright daunting.

"Sure thing, sir," Cole offered helpfully. Jasper shivered and walked with him back toward the rotting old home, his eyes everywhere but on the second-story window. It'd become more intimidating in the last ten minutes than the haunted shadows of their old barn back home had ever been in his entire life.

"It'll be fine, Jazz," Cole spoke up from his side, shivering as he hunched down deeper into his coat. Jasper felt a spark of annoyance at the nickname, closely followed by a growing bundle of nostalgia. Only his little siblings had ever called him that, and while he'd always missed them since he'd left home, he'd never wanted to be back among them again so strongly as he did right now. Just a kid on a cattle ranch, one who didn't have to worry about the life and death of his friends on a foreign battlefield where the very climate was out to strike you down quicker than a bullet ever could.

A part of him wanted to keep the stupid nickname in his family, but another part of him didn't mind so much that Cole had recently picked it up. He wasn't anywhere near home, and the body cooling just past that window was a vivid reminder of that. It was kind of nice to be called something so familial in a land that was still so foreign to him. So when Cole bumped his shoulder in search of a response, Jasper sighed and bumped it back, trying to ignore the hardening lump in his gut as they reached the porch together, and the dark interior of the cabin loomed over them through the open doorway.

"I know it will be," he acknowledged dully, his boots heavy as he lifted them back up the steps. But only for _them_. There was nothing they could do for Stratling now to help him out. Death didn't bother Jasper so much as letting down a man who had depended on him. He'd seen death before, he'd even caused it on very rare occasion, but holding himself _responsible_ for it—allowing death to claim his friends needlessly out of his own foolishness—_that_ he was finding hard to stomach.

Crawford and Jacoblef parted to make room as Jasper motioned for them to follow him inside, but he stopped Jacoblef halfway through the door. "Go keep watch with Lazarus," he instructed instead. Jacoblef nodded and left, so he turned to Crawford. "You go upstairs and keep an eye out the back for Scott. Where's Bolling?"

"Upstairs with Stratling," Crawford told him, keeping his eyes low after a brief glance that made Jasper frown.

"Tell him to meet me out back." Crawford nodded and headed up the stairs without another word, obviously a little shaken; he wasn't normally so quiet. Not exactly loud, either, not like Jacoblef, but definitely not this quiet.

Cole looked to him expectantly as Crawford's footsteps ascended the creaking stairs, and Jasper sighed as he let his nostalgia from before pass. He'd become friends with his men over the months, sure, but he was their commander first, and he couldn't forget that—especially if they never did.

He ordered Cole to keep a lookout from the window upstairs, then curled up in his coat a little and headed back outside to wait for Bolling, who was probably in need of a good talk before their superiors had a chance to hammer out a detailed explanation from him. He might not be a very _reliable_ lieutenant, but he _was_ one, and he was determined to help his men through this as best he could. His duty was to them before it was to himself.

That, at least, he hadn't forgotten for a moment.

**A/N:** Check out the link in my profile for more information.


End file.
